Brazilian Blowout

I’m turning forty. And no, not someday. This year. The very end of the year, mind you, but the count-down is on.

Turning forty is in many ways unfathomable to me because, despite my parental duties, I like to think of myself as a kid. It seems like yesterday that I was in grade school, being called to the principal’s office with a group of my friends, accused of kicking boys at recess with our heavy snow boots. It seems like yesterday that I was in middle school, tilting my chair too far back in art class and ending up flat on my back to the class’s great hysteria. It seems like yesterday that I was in high school, having my first taste of freedom hanging out in boarding students’ dorm rooms. And of course it seems like yesterday that I was in college, beloved college, drinking cheap beer and planning world domination as we sat on idyllic grassy fields, shaded by great elms and hundreds of years of dreams.

But then I look at Facebook and frankly you, my friends, ruin it for me.

It’s hard to forget that you’re going to be forty when eight out of ten of your friends’ profile photos are actually of their kids. And those photos that you can see—well, those boys with the beautiful long hair, they don’t tend to have any left. And when did the brooding boy start caring about taxes? And how did that summer fling, the guy who would never settle down, end up with five kids? And how did the college roommate, who thought she was the next Sylvia Plath, end up another disgruntled Connecticut housewife? (OK, that was an easy one, but how is she old enough to be that?) And why do some of those blonde girls from high school look like they’ve already been dabbling with Botox? And why isn’t anyone famous yet? And why oh why do we all look so old? And, by the way, how oh how have some of you turned Republican?

I’m not saying I am any better. I am almost forty and I have not saved the world, maybe not even a single tree. And I hate having pictures of myself on Facebook unless I am hidden behind my kids. I am a bit intrigued with non-surgical tummy tucks. And my updates tend to be about TV shows or funny things my kids said. Pretty heady stuff.

I started thinking about all this because of the latest rage in my mothers’ club, the Brazilian Blowout. I’m sure this name has just conjured up many images for you, but in reality it is a three-hour process by which your frizzy, wavy hair gets restored to its straight, glossy former self. It actually sounds pretty amazing to me, and I am tempted to try it out. But one thing really threw me about this Brazilian Blowout and its great popularity among the suburban mommy set : it exists because my hair did not turn wavy because of some fun, genetic quirk, as I always suspected, but instead because I am getting old.

It’s funny, every year as my kids get older I forget that I am aging with them. As I’ve said before, I am not afraid of the wrinkles, the responsibilities, the sleeplessness that has come with switching from child to parent. There are some fun perks that come with parenthood, even beyond the daily gift of having a child to call your own: more confidence, more experience, more happy hours with friends. And I do enjoy those Facebook friends’ updates. It is a good thing that you are all looking like me and thinking about the same things as me. I think I would be pretty bitter if you weren’t.

But I have to admit that these decade markers tend to get me a bit edgy. Turning thirty bugged me because of the things I wanted to jump-start in my life, mainly having a family. Turning forty bothers me because of all the things I want to slow down: my kids’ youth, the weekends, the actual—no longer just biological—clock.

Time is ticking away. I wouldn’t trade in a moment of what I’ve gotten so far, but I sure wish it could all slow down. And I do agree that youth is wasted on the young. Especially that gorgeous glossy hair.